


Our Names Recalled

by galfridian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:05:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galfridian/pseuds/galfridian
Summary: Cassandra travels to Kirkwall to investigate its troubles herself... and arrives as chaos erupts in the streets.





	Our Names Recalled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/gifts).



_when darkness comes_  
and swallows light  
heed our words  
and we shall rise  
— from the _Ballad of Ayesleigh_

A peculiar quiet falls across the deck of the _Miranda_. Seized by harsh winds, its sails snap like thunderclaps, but the crew goes still. Below deck—engrossed in a worn copy of _Aveline, Knight of Orlais_ —Cassandra nearly misses the shift. _Nearly._

She sets the book aside and rises from her chair. Absent the ordinary din of merchant ships, Cassandra hears the slap of waves against _Miranda_ ; the groan of its boards shifting in the sea; and the footsteps headed her direction. She doesn't reach for the sword at her side, but she does shift into a defensive stance—just in case.

It's Thaddea, one of a pair of Seeker recruits chosen to accompany Cassandra. Like Cassandra, she belongs to Nevarran nobility. Or she had. Those in Val Royeaux love to whisper about Thaddea's family—particularly if the recruit is within earshot. If any of this troubles Thaddea, it hasn't shown. In fact, she seems more content than Cassandra has felt since losing Anthony.

Thaddea's brows knit in a frown. “Lady Cassandra,” she says. Six months, and Cassandra hasn't driven the Nevarran propriety out of Thaddea. “It's Kirkwall. You should see.”

Cassandra follows Thaddea to the narrow stairs that lead above deck. Their third companion, an Antivan called Pascal, waits at the top. He steps aside to let them pass, and Cassandra discovers the source of the crew's mood:

Kirkwall's monstrous wall stands stark against the horizon. Beyond it, a black plume of smoke climbs toward the heavens. Cassandra pushes through the crew to reach the bow, Pascal and Thaddea at her heel.

Pascal says, “They whisper now. I've been listening. Most believe the Qunari have come to punish Kirkwall for slaying its commander.” He cocks his head, studying Cassandra. “But it's worse than that, is it not?”

“Yes,” she admits, rougher than she intends. Cassandra would prefer a Qunari reprisal—or a skirmish between Starkhaven and Kirkwall, as others speculate. But this?

Beatrix saw this coming... as has Justinia. Cassandra won't forget the look upon the Divine's face as she read Meredith Stannard's request for the Right of Annulment. She had known at once that she must go to Kirkwall.

 _Too late._ If only she had listened to her instincts: Leliana's report to the Divine had troubled Cassandra, but at Justinia's insistence, she had remained in Val Royeaux.

“Cassandra?” Pascal places himself between Cassandra and her view of Kirkwall. Thaddea might share her nationality, but it's in Pascal that Cassandra finds familiarity—not because he reminds her of herself, but because he reminds her of Anthony. Like Anthony, he has an easy grin, and he doesn't care much for formality. But then, _that_ might be Antiva showing itself.

“Tell the captain... Tell him that we must reach Kirkwall soon. If he must lighten our load to do so, see that it's done.” She steps around Pascal. The city burns, and Cassandra's hand drifts toward her sword hilt.

The recruits leave her. Cassandra watches Kirkwall grow nearer. She hasn't been to the city since she herself as a recruit, but she remembers its layout.

Someone has destroyed the Chantry.

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,” Cassandra whispers, “for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

* * *

The harbor looks like a nightmare. Buildings closest to the docks have caught fire. The fighting has destroyed half the piers, loosing ships and wreckage which drift toward the sea. Among the debris, bodies float.

They must take a rowboat to the docks. _Miranda_ cannot push through. The recruits row; Cassandra takes responsibility for pushing aside obstacles. She doesn't blanch when she removes corpses from their path. Perhaps she's seen too many horrors.

Cassandra's thoughts turn to the Champion. Leliana's report to Divine Beatrix said little about Hawke, but in the weeks the passed, the Left and Right Hands of the Divine spoke about her at length.

She wonders where the Champion is in all of this. Does she live? Cassandra finds it impossible to imagine that she doesn't. Doubtlessly, Hawke will know what lit this fuse, but whose side has she chosen? Hawke is a mage—an apostate left alone because of her renown in Kirkwall—but she's aided the order in the past.

Cassandra doesn't have to wait for her answers. As the Seekers climb onto the docks, a nearby building fragments. Thrown from the shock wave along with the mortar and stone, a woman falls at their feet.

The Champion doesn't waste a moment. She struggles to her feet. To her credit, her knees do not buckle beneath her. She shifts into a defensive position and raises a barrier. Only then does she stop to scrutinize them.

They return her scrutiny.

Hawke's armor has frayed in spots. The fur lining her collar is burnt and torn. Her black hair looks gray from dirt and dust. Her knuckles are bruised and bloodied. Cassandra has heard that the Champion utilizes her fists in close quarters; seeing the truth of that particular rumor endears the mage to her.

Hawke tilts her head, as if reading Cassandra's thoughts... or as if she can feel the suggestion of magic emanating off the Seekers.

Cassandra nods. “Hawke.”

“Seekers.” Hawke mimics Cassandra's nod. Her companions find them, a mismatched trio that includes a pirate, a dwarf, and an elf. Hawke stands taller. “Rumor has it your Order likes to alter memories. Stick around. I don't know how much of this I'll want to remember.”

The dwarf scoffs. “Just this? Hell, I have _years_ I'd like to forget.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “I hope you do not believe every rumor you hear.”

“Well, no—not _every_ rumor,” answers Hawke. A shout goes up a block or so behind her. The Champion tenses but doesn't look over her shoulder. “You're here because...?”

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, and we have come to help. Tell me, what has happened? How was the Chantry destroyed?”

The question effects visceral responses—each of the Champion's companions takes a step toward her—but it's Hawke's reaction that strikes Cassandra. The humor in her eyes, grim as it may have been, vanishes; her barrier falters. “It was blown up—”

“— _blown up_?” Pascal interjects.

“—by an apostate.” Hawke works her jaw. With difficulty, she adds, “One of my companions.”

Thaddea and Pascal move closer to Casandra. She stills them with a shake of her head. “Where is the apostate now?”

“Dead,” Hawke answers. Her inflection suggests Cassandra shouldn't question her further. She needn't bother. Blood has dried on the dagger at Hawke's side, and Cassandra recognizes the particular torment in the Champion's eyes.

“What of the Knight-Commander?”

“The _Knight-Commander_ has invoked the Right of Annulment.”

“Annulment! The Divine has not sanctioned it.”

“Yeah, I think Meredith might not care about the Divine's approval right now,” the dwarf says.

“She cannot—certainly, not for the actions of an apostate. I must speak with her.”

“We're going to the Gallows to defend the Circle,” says Hawke. “The Order is also there. Meredith will be gathering the templars to march on the mages.”

“Then we will go with you.”

Hawke nods. “This way.”

* * *

The fight reaches the Gallows before them. As Cassandra and Hawke race up the stairs, the templars pursue the retreating mages. Orsino defends the mages, throwing the templars across the courtyard. “First Enchanter!” Hawke calls.

Orsino sighs his relief. “Champion! You've survived, thank the Maker! We must—”

“And here you are.” Meredith strides into the courtyard, her templars flanking her on both sides. Her fury sharpens her features. At the sight of Cassandra, she staggers to a stop. “Seeker Pentaghast!” gasps Meredith. “I trust that you've come to deliver the Divine's seal of—”

“I have come, Knight-Commander, to stop this madness before it leaves this city.”

Rage flashes in Meredith's eyes. This woman seems a stranger. Cassandra hasn't known the Knight-Commander well, but she knows this isn't her. Meredith Stannard is passionate—and certainly, somewhat prejudiced—but this isn't that. “The Right of Annulment _will_ stop this.”

“The Right of Annulment has not been sanctioned here. Order your templars to stand down.”

“How dare you!” Meredith hisses.

Orsino descends the stairs. “Let us speak, Meredith! Before the battle destroys the city you claim to protect!”

Meredith turns her ire on him. “I will entertain a surrender, nothing more.” The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander stand face-to-face. Hawke watches the pair from the sidelines. “Speak, if you have something to say.”

“Revoke the Right of Annulment, Meredith, before this goes too far,” pleads Orsino. “Imprison us, if you must. Search the tower. I will even help you. But do not kill us all for an act we did not commit.”

Cassandra steps between Orsino and Meredith. “ _Stop this._ You will not fight the templars. And _you_ will not punish the Circle for the actions of an apostate. I speak with the authority of the Divine—”

“The Divine sits on her throne across the Waking Sea and knows nothing. I do not need her permission to defend this city.” Meredith's hand strays to the hilt of her sword. Casandra doesn't miss the threat.

“Really? Because I'm thinking that you do.” Hawke comes to her side, shielding the First Enchanter.

Meredith's lips thin in disgust. “So this is your decision. So be it. You will share the Circle's fate.”

“Knight-Commander, you must stop this,” Cassandra demands.

“Seeker Pentaghast, I suggest you stand down, or you might find yourself on the execution block come morning.”

Cassandra almost laughs— _as if she could_ —but the madness in Meredith's expression stops her. “Meredith, please.”

The Knight-Commander ignores her. “Prepare your people, Orsino. The rest of the Order is already crossing the harbor.”

Hawke catches Cassandra's eye. “Well, I think that went well!” She spins on her heel and follows Orsino. Cassandra shakes her head; Hawke's humor borders on pathological. Kirkwall tears itself apart at the seams, and her friend's blood stains her blade, and still she jokes.

But then, Cassandra considers as she follows Hawke and Orsino further into the gallows, perhaps she's trying to preserve the scant remainder of her sanity.

* * *

"Get out of Kirkwall," Orsino urges the gathered mages, "spread the word to the other Circles."

Trepidation is a hammer in Cassandra's heart. This cannot happen—this fight cannot spread. It's a fire that will consume Thedas.

The mages begin their preparations. They fill their pouches with potions and patch their tattered robes. Most of them have little in the way of armor, but they will stand against the templars nonetheless.

Cassandra sends Pascal and Thaddea to help the mages. They find scraps of metal and fashion makeshift chest plates. Thaddea slips spare daggers into their belts while Pascal smiles and eases their nerves. They offer their own potions to the mages.

Hawke takes her companions aside one-by-one. Leliana's report says little of the Champion's inner circle, but Cassandra finds she recognizes each one. They speak to one another in low tones, waiting for Hawke. Waiting for this battle to begin.

Hawke begins with Aveline. The captain of Kirkwall's guard looks ill-at-ease, and Cassandra doesn't fault her. Her city splits at its seam, and she cannot stop it. Hawke goes to Isabela next. Cassandra knows little about the pirate except that Leliana blushes at her name.

On it goes, from Isabela to Fenris to Merrill; and finally, to the dwarf: Varric Tethras. An author—according to Leliana—of questionable literature and apparently Hawke's closest friend. He makes Hawke laugh, and they part with a nod of understanding.

Hawke speaks to her brother last, a Grey Warden come to stand beside his sister.

Cassandra doesn't watch this. She can't let Anthony haunt her thoughts. Not now. Instead, she adjusts her armor and checks her weapons. 

“Tell me, Seeker, where do you stand in all of this?” Varric watches her with curious scrutiny.

“Excuse me?”

“Look around us—we're outnumbered here. Why fight against your own people?”

“The Seekers of Truth do not belong to the Templar Order, dwarf, and I choose to fight because I refuse to watch zealots slaughter the blameless.”

“That's... surprisingly poetic,” Varric teases. His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“I am glad you approve,” Cassandra deadpans.

Varric laughs, but Hawke stops any retort he might have. “Leave her alone, Varric.” He raises his hands in mock surrender and slips away.

“I wanted to thank you,” Hawke says. “Varric is right—this isn't your fight. You'll have to kill templars, and I know that won't be easy.”

“It it what must be done, but... no. I don't look forward to that,” Cassandra admits. “What I choose this day, the Maker will judge. Perhaps he will have mercy on all of us.”

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,” quotes Hawke, as if reciting from the far reaches of her memory.

“In their blood the Maker's will is written,” Cassandra finishes.

“Ah, I hoped that one had a more uplifting message than that.” Her eyes sparkle, and Cassandra finds something admirable in that—to have a spirit that cannot be trampled. Hawke glances at Orsino. “Well... we'll speak after, yeah?”

Cassandra nods. “Yes.”

* * *

Hawke stares at the petrified remains of Kirkwall's Knight-Commander. Meredith looks more creature than human, flesh and bone married to armor and weapon. Cassandra kneels beside Pascal's—tries to stop the blood seeping from a wound in his side. Thaddea's hand is on her shoulder.

Hawke holds her staff in a white-knuckled grip, and Cassandra thinks the Champion might become sick right there in the courtyard. Instead, Hawke turns away from Meredith, and she walks away from the all. Mages and templars alike step aside to allow her to pass. She catches Cassandra's eye as she does, and Cassandra shudders at the hollowness in her eyes.

The Champion's companions follow her. Only Varric pauses to speak to Cassandra. “There's a spot in Lowtown. The Hanged Man. We'll be there.” He presses a pair of healing potions into her hand. “For your Antivan.”

Cassandra watches them go. Dusk has fallen, and their company slips into the shadows, like the heroes of legend.

“Find a healer,” Cassandra orders Thaddea, opening the first of the healing potions. She parts Pascal's parched lips and pours the potion between them. “Swallow.”

Templars have begun to slink away, turning to traditional healers or else retreating to the Order's barracks. A few mages linger to see to each other's wounds, but most heed Orsino's advice—they run from Kirkwall to spread the story to other Circles. Cassandra curses herself again. She should have left Val Royeaux as soon as she read Leliana's report.

A mage kneels to look at Pascal's wound, but she's too late. His heart has stopped. His hands have already begun to go cold. “I'm sorry,” the mage whispers.

As the mage walks away, Thaddea returns with a healer at her heels. “ _No_ ,” she chokes. It's the first the young Nevarran has seen of death, and it's someone she called a friend.

Cassandra eases Pascal off her lap. She stands, and then she pulls Thaddea to her feet. “The Divine must know what happened here,” she says.

Thaddea nods. “I'll go.” She draws a sharp breath. “I'll bring him home.”

“I will remain here and help where I can. You must ask her to send aid—this city isn't just mages and templars.”

Cassandra doesn't watch Thaddea leave. She gathers her sword and shield and turns toward Lowtown.

* * *

The Hanged Man has a certain charm. Underneath its dirt and some of its patrons, that is. Tonight, it's the only well-lit corner of Lowtown. The fighting has left many people homeless, and they seek refuge in the tavern.

Cassandra draws their attention when she enters. With her armor and disheveled appearance, she looks like the source of their problems. Fortunately—she hopes—she also draws Isabela's attention. The pirate sweeps her away, directing her toward the stairs. “Seeker, you look like you need a drink... and a bath. Let's starts with the drink and see what happens.” Isabela shoves a stein into her hands and gives her a nudge toward the stairs.

At the top, Cassandra finds a suite. Hawke and Varric sit at a long table. A map of Thedas stretches across the table, weighed down by a pair of steins.

“You're here,” Hawke smiles. She takes a swig of ale, letting the map curl toward Varric. When it reaches his stein, he lifts it and tucks away the map.

With a nod at Cassandra, he stands. “I'll let you two talk,” he says, and slips into the hallway.

“So you've found us,” says Hawke, gesturing for Cassandra to sit.

“Varric suggested that I come. If that's a problem—”

“It isn't,” Hawke insists. “You just... look a little out of place.”

“Do I? The dirt makes a poor disguise then.” Cassandra chooses a chair across from Hawke, leaving Varric's seat empty.

Hawke chokes on her laughter. “You _joke_? I owe Varric five sovereigns now.”

“On occasion.” Cassandra braves a swallow of her ale. It tastes faintly of spice. Not the worst she's had, particularly in the Marches. “Do you expect your companions sometime tonight?”

“My companions?” echoes Hawke. “My _friends_ will be here. Aveline and Merrill have responsibilities to see to, but they'll come by.”

“What of your brother?” asks Cassandra. She regrets the question at once, as Hawke tries to disguise her flinch. “Oh. You needn't answer—”

“Carver's back with the Wardens. Probably for the best. They'll look out for him.”

“Like you couldn't?” Cassandra fills in Hawke's unspoken words. 

Hawke crosses her arms and answers Cassandra with a shrug. Cassandra considers what Hawke has already lost—father, sister, mother—and the dearness of what her remaining family must mean. Even when she's at odds with him, as the stories often say Hawke is. “I had a brother,” Cassandra offers, and Hawke relaxes her arms—just slightly.

“Had?”

“He was murdered. Twenty years ago.” 

“How?” Hawke chokes. She turns her head away, but Cassandra glimpses unshed tears in her eyes as she does. So the rumors must be true. Hawke's mother was murdered. 

Cassandra speaks of Anthony infrequently and speaks of his death less than that. But sitting across from Hawke—who minutes ago had a map in front of her—Cassandra recognizes the keenness of her loss today.

Hawke has struggled to survive Kirkwall, and certainly, she's struggled as its Champion, but she's has built a home here. And now she has had a hand in its ruining. 

“He refused to aid blood mages, and they took his life in front of me,” Cassandra answer. “I was twelve, and I was suddenly alone.”

Hawke's lips set in a grim line. “Alone... yeah.”

Cassandra frowns. “You are not alone, Hawke, and I am certain you know it.”

Hawke sags in her seat, her shoulders sloped as though Kirkwall's fate physically rests upon them. “I did this. Trying not to choose sides. Not seeing how much this affected Anders.”

“You cannot blame yourself, Hawke. Your choices do not define this city—and you could not have stopped your friend, not if he had made peace with _his_ choice.” Hawke nods but does not meet her eye, so Cassandra presses. “Do you recall what happened at the Ten Year Gathering of 9:22?”

Hawke gapes at her. “I _knew_ I recognized your name. Oh, wait until Varric—”

Cassandra groans. “No. _Please_.” She knows she looks pained—she's never hid emotions well—but the ghost of a smile on Hawke's lips makes it worth it. “Yes, okay. You recognize my name. Listen to me, would you? Beatrix was betrayed from within the Chantry, and while she did not lose her life, that betrayal did cost many lives. She carried that guilt to her deathbed, but you do not have to, Hawke.”

Hawke doesn't reply, and a knock on the doorframe disrupts their conversation. Hawke's companions stand in the doorway. Hawke's spirits life at the sight of them, bruised and weary, but hers. Varric grins. “So you're _that_ Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Cassandra sighs.

* * *

She agrees to use one of Hawke's spare rooms. Kirkwall's inns leave much to be desired, at least if Isabela's descriptions should be taken literally, and it's likely they've filled with people whose homes burned today.

The mansion feels less like a home than the tavern. Hawke's servants, a pair of dwarves and an elf, seem to have influenced its décor more than she has. Cassandra wonders why Hawke keeps it, until Hawke shows Cassandra to her mother's room—untouched since her death. “I'd give you Carver's room, but it always looks like he fought an archdemon there.”

“I believe I can survive some clutter,” Cassandra says. “Let's leave your mother's room alone tonight.”

“ _'Some clutter,'_ ” Hawke rolls her eyes. "This way then."

Hawke has not exaggerated. Carver's room indeed looks like some great battle was fought—and lost—there. Hawke kicks his belongings to the sides, creating a path to the bed for Cassandra. A pile of books serves as a bedside table.

“Sorry about that,” says Hawke, “I needed somewhere to store Varric's books. He gives out copies for _every_ occasion. He gave a copy of _Swords and Shields_ to Fenris as congratulations for killing his master. Fenris uses it as a doorstop.”

Cassandra snorts. “Surely, it cannot be that bad.”

“Oh, but it is,” Hawke grins. “Anyway, the bed should be comfortable enough. Carver sleeps on the library floor half the time he's here, but I don't think that's the bed's fault.”

“Thank you,” says Cassandra. She finds this surreal—standing in the Champion of Kirkwall's home, the pair of them worn thin from battle, the world on the brink of chaos. “You're taller than I pictured.”

“You know, I actually hear that a lot, Seeker,” Hawke says.

“You _can_ call me 'Cassandra,' Hawke.”

Hawke nods. “Good night then, Cassandra.”

“Good night, Champion.”

Hawke's laughter echoes in the hallway.

* * *

When Cassandra wakes in the morning, she finds she had fallen asleep atop an open copy of _Swords and Shields_.

On the stack of books, she discovers a note from Hawke:

_Thank you, Cassandra Allegra Portia—can you believe Varric had this written down somewhere?—Calogera Filomena Pentaghast._

_For everything._


End file.
